


Carnal

by scribblemyname



Series: The Gambit [2]
Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Consensual Sex, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-22
Updated: 2011-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:36:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/pseuds/scribblemyname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old acquaintance of Rogue and Storm's joins the X-Men. Romy</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Gambit's Rogue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It Takes Two, to Practice](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2778) by Rogue in Rouge. 



> This is dedicated to Chica De Los Ojos Cafe for her lovely review of "The Rogue's Gambit." It is a gift to coup fatal, who needs a taste of some real Romy while her significant other is away, so I wrote this up. It is a tribute to Ludi, who pushed my muse along the more dangerous Romy fics running through my head and inspired me to pick this up again. It is the sequel to "The Rogue's Gambit." Please enjoy

She's under his skin.

He can still taste her, still smell the hint of rain and sweat and sweetness like no fruit or flower he's ever smelled that coated her skin, still feel the heat of her in his soul.

" _Was I that bad?" she asked._

 _He stared at her uncomprehending. That bad? She was the sweetest thing he'd tasted since Bella. She'd been perfect beneath his palms, her cries driving the beat of his pulse as she surrendered to him so readily._

 _He should have known._

He should have known he would eventually break every promise he has ever made to himself. The one that he'll stop caring, the one that he'll leave his past behind, the one that he'll never take innocence again.

He doesn't know what draws him back a year after the fact toward dusk as he ducks into his favorite bar. He pretends he doesn't know why the women throwing him lidded, seductive looks and heated stares don't draw him. He pretends this is any ordinary night when he wants to be alone with a game of solitaire and a shot of bourbon.

" _See you in a year?" he asked. Not even a hint of emotion gave him away in his voice._

 _Her eyes slid away and she tossed back just as casually, "Maybe."_

He pretends he isn't hot just thinking of her. He pretends she isn't under his skin.

 _A woman laughed once in his arms, accepted his ring, his touch. Blood on the sheets. She got under his skin, like an itch that wouldn't let go. Her blue eyes haunted him, the way they looked the day he took her innocence._

 _Not the innocence of her virginity._

 _Never again, he vowed the day he left New Orleans. Never again would he take that laughter away in the shedding of blood, the loss of innocence._

He deals the cards. Turning up aces. He stares at the red and black on playing cards.

Queens for a pretty lady. Deuces for choices to be made. Aces for death.

For blood.

Blood on the sheets. Only twice in his life had he drawn it from a woman.

 _Her eyes went wide as he brought her for the very first time. She swallowed her cry, strangling for herself what he wanted so badly to hear._

 _He should have known._

In his mind, he touches her, is still touching her, and he hates himself that she is under his skin.

Blood on the sheets. Blood on white. Red on a white dress.

He checks the time. It's almost midnight, too late for an innocent to be walking the streets and meeting men in bars. Too late to take a gambit.

 _She had gazed at him coldly. "I don't owe you."_

 _He pulled her taut against him and demanded, "Don't you?"_

 _There was a certain carnal pleasure the second time he took her, in knowing he had taught her this. It was his as much as hers._

He took her innocence.

Bella Donna. Rogue.

It's why he sits here waiting, dealing cards, playing with hearts, even knowing she will not come.

\- xx -

He doesn't return to his apartment until after one o'clock in the morning. He drank little, having spent most of the evening on alert for white hair soft against brown and a pair of glittering emerald eyes.

She did not come.

He runs a hand through his hair and opens a cupboard to pull down a bottle of bourbon and another to retrieve a glass. He sets both on the granite countertop.

A faint buzz tickles him under the ribs.

He slips out the phone and glances at the name on the screen. He feels something darken in him briefly, a tightening in his gut, but then smiles as he thinks of good times long ago. He flips open the cell and holds it to his ear.

"Stormy! Bonjour, chèrie." He's sure she can hear his smirk in the tone of his voice, and he keeps his voice light, despite misgivings.

The response is exactly what he expected, sharp and precise. "Do _not_ call me that."

He laughs. "And what can I do for you, Stormy?"

A long pause of displeasure, a slight sniff, then she deigns to reply. "Remy."

"Remy LeBeau," he confirms. "The one and only."

"You said you'd consider my offer," she says, her warm dignity ringing through in the tone, as if knowing all friendliness between them will vanish with those words.

He flattens one palm against the countertop and clenches his teeth to restrain a growl. The X-Men. An offer he cannot refuse. One he cannot accept. And the very thing he had known she would call about tonight.

Ororo Munroe, Storm, weather goddess, queen of his heart, his _mignonne_ , his little princess, had been gifted not only with the most beautiful rich brown skin, soft white hair like spun silk, like fresh fallen snow, the ability to control the wind and the rain and the elements, besides her unruffled composure, but also with the gift of remarkably terrible timing.

"I will," he says flatly.

She sighs and he winces, knowing she'll find some way to draw blood.

"We don't have enough people."

A reminder. A reprimand. Blood on the hands of a woman who had once been her dearest friend. The Professor was gone. Scott was gone. Jean was gone. And his _mignonne_ needed him.

"Stormy..." he breathes out, running his hand through his hair again.

Her voice stiffens considerably. "Do _not_ call me that."

He only manages a slight smile, the barest upward turn of the lips. "I don't want to do this," he says, openly admitting the truth for once in his life.

She accepts it, honors it with a moment's silence, before finally drawing the blood he's been waiting for.

"Neither do I."

\- xx -

"This is Gambit," Storm says, addressing the gathered X-Men in Xavier's War Room around the conference table.

He cuts a long, lean figure in a trench coat, scruffy, handsome, dangerous. His eyes are a striking red on black. His casual smirk could be trademarked.

He's staring at her.

She recognizes him but does not allow it to show on her face when he catches her gaze and his smirk grows wider. She isn't even listening to whatever Storm has to say about the newest addition to their team because she knows him too on a much more intimate footing. Strangely, she has no desire at the moment to know his professional occupation or why he is here instead of there. She simply wants to escape his almost tangible gaze upon her.

"And that is Rogue," Storm says.

She stiffens.

"We've already met," he says drily and tilts his head toward her for confirmation.

She merely smiles, a small, coy expression. "When I took the Cure."

The crimson irises flare, overtaking the black.

A few people glance toward her, not least of all Logan with his crossed arms and protective demeanor.

She shrugs. "That's almost over."

He is sitting down as Storm gives her a meaningful look.

"The Cure may be failing, but life is not over."

She narrows her eyes in anger. "It's not your life, Storm."

Storm hesitates, then draws the conversation away onto safer ground. It swirls and eddies into topics she doesn't bother to listen to. Instead, she finds herself all too aware of a heated stare directed at her from unique eyes, black and red.

\- xx -

Bobby follows hard on her heels out of the meeting. "Rogue! You know him?" he demands, catching her by one arm in the hallway.

She rounds on him and grips his own arm hard, then carefully, deliberately removes his hand from her skin.

He has the decency to look chastened. She glimpses Gambit standing in the doorway, watching them, waiting to come out.

"I know precisely three things about him," she says, a fierceness sliding up under her skin.

Bobby pulls away from her, worry edging about his eyes. He has seen when she gets like this, when she lashes out for previous hurts. "Rogue..."

"Don't," she says.

He cuts off the words within him.

She studies her grip on his sleeve. Green eyes glance upward, catch against his gaze. He holds his breath.

"His name is Gambit."

She's going to do it. She's going to make him bleed.

"He keeps a tab at The Dragon's Nest."

A bar. Bobby hates bars. She can see him processing the information.

She leans in.

He draws back, eyes widening with realization.

No.

"And he's good in bed," she whispers almost directly against his skin.

The knife goes in. It's only what he deserves. "Rogue..."

"Don't," she says, voice hard. "You did it first."

\- xx -

She enters her darkened room with the shades drawn and the haphazard array of morning preparations still strewn across various items of furniture. The room is too warm. The scent of spices and cigarettes and bourbon wafts through the closed in space. She lifts one eyebrow at the unauthorized occupant of her desk chair.

Gambit.

Long auburn hair falls to his shoulders, framing the sharp planes of his lean face, the expression obscured by the dimness of the light. Dark eyes glow crimson against a black sea seeking to draw her in.

She casually continues into the room, shutting the door with the heel of her dress shoe and tossing her gloves onto the dresser.

"Stood me up." His voice is as husky and dark as she remembered. The kind designed to seduce, to tempt, to steal away a girl's heart when she isn't looking.

"I said maybe, Gambit." She keeps her own voice calm and even and begins to make up the bed. She deliberately does not look at him. "And _maybe_ is exactly what I meant."

He is silent for a while. She can feel him watching her as she moves about her bedroom, cleaning up and straightening the mess she made. Heat coils lightly under her skin, as if feeling his gaze makes her feel other things. She ignores the warm sensation as firmly as she ignores what his tantalizing scent does to her nerve endings.

She does not speak and the atmosphere grows tense with something thick and almost painful between them.

"So what happens when the Cure wears off?" he speaks suddenly into the heavy silence.

She stiffens and turns toward him and the burn of his glowing eyes. He catches her gaze and she catches her breath, wondering if he's trying to drown her in them.

She retorts sharply, if not as sharply as she intended, "What do you want?"

He looks inordinately pleased with himself. He has achieved the effect _he_ intended, and it irritates her to see his eyes dim and darken again, to see the way he flexes his muscles in shifting to a more comfortable position in the chair and it draws her attention, and to see the way he looks at her, as if in some small way he owns her.

But his words throw all of that into a glaringly different focus. "To get you out from under my skin." He flashes a predatory grin, but it is not enough to cast them into doubt. He means what he says.

She slows in her actions but refuses to remove the snap from her voice. "Why, of all the women you've had and bedded, would _I_ be under your skin?" she asks.

He measures the distance between them, not large since she is placing clothes in the drawer about a foot from his head.

He shifts again and she glances over. Not in time to catch the motion as he wraps one hand tightly about her wrist and pulls. She yanks back, but he is stronger and she finds herself mere inches away from his chest, his hair, his scent, hovering over him in his chair, trapped in a way that is all too familiar.

His grip loosens and he brings up his other hand to trace one finger lightly around her wrist, leaving a trail of heat where he has touched her. She lids her eyes and leans back slightly from him, further from the smoldering fire in his eyes. When he speaks it is low and nearly rumbles through her.

"Because you're an innocent rogue who's used to danger. You're a girl and you're a woman. You're vixen and ingénue." He draws the words out in admiration. "The juxtaposition is..." He tilts his head at her as if searching for the word. The heady irises ringing his eyes flare into a brilliance of scarlet. He smiles on one side of his mouth, slowly, almost seductively. "Scintillating."

She yanks her hand out of his grasp, even if she doesn't back away. "Well, go be scintillated by something else."

He studies her with a frankly open expression. "What do _you_ want, Rogue? For some reason, you seem to think everything's over once this Cure wears off." He pauses, leaving her an opening.

She does not speak, does not deny it. Instead, she focuses on rubbing the feel of him off of her wrist where it stubbornly remains.

"But you _want_ something, chère," he insists, leaning forward into her personal space.

She pauses.

"I want you."

His breath paints her collar bone. She doesn't back away. She _does_ want something, but he is a dangerous man, someone she should not, cannot give her heart to. So she falls back on her defenses.

"This more of your seduction techniques?" She lifts one eyebrow with practiced casualness and drops her hands to her hips.

His eyes flicker. "I told. Why don't you?"

"Because you're a predator." The answer comes easy.

His slow, steady smile, just edging into a smirk, tells her his comes easier. "And the Rogue isn't?"

She narrows her eyes at him. Two can play, she thinks viciously. "Because you're a gambit."

"You're used to danger," he throws her own words back at her from a lifetime ago, from the one compromising situation of her entire life...with him.

And unfortunately, he's right.

She glares at him. "Because I don't trust you!"

He lets out that same rich, rumbling chuckle that reeled her in the first time. His eyes coax her, beg her to tell. She feels her resolve wavering and she hates that he has such power over her. If her voice comes out more bitter than she intends, what is it?

"Touch that isn't a lie."

He is silent. He studies her as she studies him. He frowns.

"Touch..."

"Yes," she says softly. "Touch." Vengeance flares within her and she leans in close to mingle their breath in the warm, dim space between them. She cants her head toward him and speaks out softly, fiercely, "He touched me when he didn't want me. He touched me like he cared. They touch me like they're not afraid, like they're not reaching for the most covered place they find. They touch me like they're happy when they're not. They touch me like they're playful when they're afraid. Touch, Gambit!" Her tone sharpens. "It lies more readily than the tongue."

Then she pulls away, turns her body toward the bed, her shoulder pointed toward him on the edge.

She can hear his even breathing, the harsh hiss of her own exhale.

"You want touch," he says. The meaning in his words is heady. Question. Answer. Desire. Want.

She shudders, realizing she is trembling, that the closeness between them is growing and intensifying. She can feel him like he was pressed against her and he still remains seated in her chair.

The silence stretches.

She squares her shoulders and makes up her mind. She turns back towards him, glimpses a flare of surprise in that heady, heated gaze. He tilts his head in question. She draws closer, slips her hands into his hair, pulling his head back so she can look at him directly.

She leans close to him and whispers. "No lies. No misleading. No implications that aren't the truth. I want you to be real with me." She draws a heavy breath and places one hand over his heart. The beat is steady, giving no indication of what he's feeling. "You can have me. All of me." The first quickening of his heartbeat. "But if you want me, I better feel it," she says harshly. "If you're angry, I want your anger. I want your touch, you, to never lie to me, Gambit."

She studies his face, the unreadable expression, the way the red in his eyes has softened and blended with the black.

She feels his hand move up her side and her breath hitches. She hadn't even felt him touch her and now he is moving. His other hand comes up to claim her waist. Slowly, he guides her closer until only her hand between them keeps her from having to sit on his lap.

"I promise you'll get the full, unadulterated version," he says, and somehow the words hold no comfort. No reassurance. He's leaning toward her, tilting his head, and this achingly close to her mouth when he whispers, "I don't promise you'll like it."

She tilts her head back away from his mouth, exposing her throat and allowing him access to devour her.

\- xx -

A woman laughed once in his arms, accepted his ring, his touch. She got under his skin, like an itch that wouldn't let go.

It's gone.

As he loses himself in her green eyes, wide as he brings her, in her scent like rain and sweat and sweetness unlike any fruit or flower he's ever smelled, he finds she has displaced Bella from his heart, the first woman to ever make him forget.

He draws her out and shudders when she comes.

She stares up at him, her beauty too real, too innocent for him to speak. She's breathing hard and he suddenly wonders if she's done this with anyone else. Tentative fingers reach up to brush across his face, his skin. She closes her eyes and he waits.

"I like it," she whispers.

Bitterness taints his tone as with those three words, she has brought him back to what she had finally helped him to forget.

"You won't."


	2. The Gambit's Meaning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In response to the reviews regarding the physical aspects of things: Um...While I'm all for implication (y'all know _that_ about me), this is a fic seriously exploring a highly sexual relationship. I'll follow the characters wherever they lead. It won't always be explicit. It definitely won't always be merely implied. It depends on what the scene is about. When it's about emotion, expect a more understated description. When it's about physicality, well, physical is what you'll get.

She wakes in a tangle of hot skin and hard muscle, breathing in from the hollow of his neck his spicy scent mingled with her own. His head is a heavy, warm weight on hers and she's tucked in fully against him, a few of her fingers brushing against surprisingly soft hair. She briefly wonders whose. Their limbs are entwined so thoroughly, her senses so overwhelmed with his nearness, it's throwing off her sense of direction and of her own body. She doesn't know who is who in this slight rubbing of skin against naked skin.

She curls up one knee in an attempt to find herself and finds she is sliding against the inside of his leg. His body tightens around her in response, sending hot tremors up her spine. She bites her lower lip and holds her breath, wondering if he will wake.

She feels the hard press of his fingers against the small of her back. His breath hitches and loses its regularity. He shifts against her and she burns with the motion. She lets out a soundless gasp, even knowing he will feel it with her face so close and his heartbeat pounding beneath her flattened palm and his hands hardening their grip and she moves and wishes the friction were not so tantalizing on her senses, so stirring.

He breathes.

She stops breathing.

"Rogue..." His voice is still husky with sleep and his low whisper sounds so intimate and wanting.

She catches a shaky breath.

He lifts his head up to kiss her, moving from the top of her head down to nibble at the sensitive skin behind her ear, where she nearly jumps with the shock of it, and then slowly down her neck, nipping her lightly, causing tiny pangs of pleasant heat. He comes to a stop and nuzzles her shoulder, her neck, her collar bone, and she can barely breathe, she is so close, pressed up against the skin of his throat. He isn't gentle. His kisses grow harder and hungrier with every touch.

His teeth are sharp against her and then a white hot pain blossoms on her neck and she's crying out and he's kissing her there and the warmth that floods her isn't just pain. But she isn't ready for this. This bruising need. This rough pleasure.

She pulls her head away from his. "Gambit. Stop." She gets the words out breathlessly and to her surprise, he stops.

But his grip on her hips is aching and tight and it tightens fractionally even more as he holds himself still against her. She can just see his eyes now, the desire burning in the blood-colored irises, the questions flitting through them.

She strains to look over him, over his shoulder, and catches a glimpse of the bright numbers on the alarm clock.

"Oh, crap!" She falls back onto the bed. "I have a DR session in twenty minutes."

Abruptly, he loosens his grip and she disentangles herself from him and the twisted sheets. She winces as she sits up and frowns, looking down and rubbing at the bruises forming on her skin. The pain on her neck has settled into a mild throbbing ache.

"Trying to mark your territory?" She raises her head to look at him and lifts one eyebrow.

His eyes flare, but he settles back against the headboard without speaking.

She studies him briefly, the tenseness in his hands, the way he's turned away from her, looking toward blinds still shut from yesterday, his unruly hair falling across the glowing embers of his eyes.

"No answer?" she asks softly, reaching out with her voice to catch him, remembering the stream of easy, flirtatious banter he used with her the first time they had met.

He shrugs ever so casually and turns his smoldering eyes on her. "There's habit and then there's honesty, chèrie." The words are a pointed reminder of their agreement.

She holds his gaze for a long moment, then nods before slipping off the bed and towards the bathroom to take a shower. The last thing she wants is Logan catching his scent on her skin when they train.

She knows it will not wash him out from under it.

\- xx -

She slams the shower door shut and leans her head under the warm spray. She flinches when the water strikes her body. Besides this morning's activities in bed, she has Logan to thank for a smattering of aches and pains and several bruises on her back and legs. He brought her down hard more than once.

 _"You're getting sloppy, kid." He swung at her with the staff and caught her on the legs._

 _She managed to roll directly into another fighting position but only to find the wooden beam resting at her throat._

 _He almost growled. "You're distracted."_

Well, she _was_ distracted.

She wore her hair long where it constantly got in the way and her leather body suit zipped up high as it could until she almost felt like she was choking, just to cover the stinging bruise on her neck. And she couldn't stop thinking about him.

She still can't stop thinking about him.

Memories of the heat of him, the scent of him, as he explored her so thoroughly, missing not a single curve or flare of her skin with his wandering hands across her flesh, linger in her mind. She feels herself flush and the blood rising in her, and she dips her head under the strongest part of the shower's flow to hide it from even herself. She remembers his touch, his rough grip on her hips this morning, the ache of longing...

Suddenly, she shudders. A wave of coolness chases the heat back down to her shoulders as she realizes just what she has asked, agreed to, _demanded_. She drops the wash rag abruptly and leans forward to press her arms against the shower wall to hold her, water pelting her eyes, her face. Her arms are trembling, her shoulders starting to shake. She feels the first sting of tears behind her eyes.

 _"Shouldn't be here, chère. 'S not safe," he had warned her._

 _"I'm used to danger."_

And he _is_ dangerous. Her agreement with him more so.

The liquid seeping towards her lips is no longer the warm, clean wetness of her shower water but sharp with the tang of salt and tears. The spray stings on her body, all the places he marked her with his honesty. How far is she really willing to go for a taste of reality, of truth? She should be wondering instead of feeling, instead of reveling in this pain.

Pain brings the taste of truth.

She'll go as far as it takes.

She straightens and shivers as she brushes away the tears from where they have tangled in her lashes. She scoops up her wash rag from the tiled floor, applies a generous amount of soap, and resumes the cleansing of her body.

\- xx -

There's something in all of this that's bothering him, especially now that he's given something he never thought he would, not to any girl.

Why didn't she come?

He's standing outside the mansion, breathing in the brisk morning air swirling around his trench coat, and he flips up his collar to keep off the chill. Smoking tends to ease the tension that builds up in him when he's forced to be honest with himself, face the truth of what he is and all he's done. He's smoking now. The nicotine floods his veins and he focuses on the questions circling around in his mind.

Like why she didn't come.

He knew from the beginning she might not. He had told himself he wasn't counting on it, didn't care. But then he saw her again, sealed this damning deal, and now he has her. And it matters.

He curses and leans his head back on the outer wall of the building.

Striking a casual pose, all nonchalance and unimportant details, comes second nature to him, part of the Thief training his adopted father ground into him when he was still young. He blows out his smoke and watches the world around him with disinterested eyes, waiting for the intruder he has sensed to approach. He doesn't have to wait long.

The man called Wolverine (a trifle protective of Rogue, if he isn't mistaken) crunches over the slightly dry grass and gestures his request to join him.

He nods, offers a cigarette.

Wolverine has his own. Cigar.

The feral mutant lights up beside him, takes a deep drag, and blows out the smoke. "So Cajun. What's your gig with Rogue?"

He isn't mistaken.

He grins. "Now that be between me and the femme, non?"

"Look." Wolverine stubs out his cigar on the wall and turns to face him full on. "The kid's got her own ideas. She's grown. But she's still family."

He tilts his head, listening.

"You break her heart, I'll break your legs. You got that?" He would too. Wolverine is clearly a dangerous man, as well as mutant.

He merely bows his head in acquiescence.

"Good." Wolverine gives a look of distaste. "I could smell her on you this morning. And I don't want a repeat of that."

"Oui, monsieur. Je comprends." He continues smoking his cigarette, keeping the casual smirk, the careless pose.

If he was betting, he'd say that Wolverine didn't like him. But what surprise is there in that? He probably _will_ break her heart if she doesn't stop him.

He wants to scowl at that, but instead, he glances sidelong at the Wolverine. "Careful, homme. Might get your face stuck that way."

Wolverine jerks his thumb in the direction of the mansion. "Twenty minutes and you're in the Danger Room with Angel." He stomps off toward the door.

He flings away his cigarette in disgust and grinds it out beneath his heel. The air is brisk and smells of a light rain.

"That's right, Stormy," he mutters. "You got that exactly right."

\- xx -

He slams his bo staff hard on Angel's back, then flips out of the way of a sideswiping wing. Angel has been pressing his advantage of flight, but he doesn't care what the ange does. He has been deliberately avoiding using his own advantages, using the exercise as a way of escape from having to think.

The Danger Room looked like an urban jungle upon entry, and it's second nature for him to engage the flying mutant in a place so much like home. He can leap across the roofs and the various debris and use the walls as his own personal playground, a concept that seems to have escaped the "team leader."

Another back flip allows him the height to lash out in a kick to Angel's leg, bringing him down in surprise. Angel recovers, remembering his wings, and retaliates with a hard right hook.

He feels him coming and rolls out of the way on his way down, hits the ground, and uses his momentum to swing back again.

The two men grapple and then he's falling off the roof with nothing beneath him. In a second, he twists in the air and reaches for a fire escape. He draws himself up, then allows himself to fall to the ground, this time in control, dropping lightly on his feet.

Angel's circling above, looking for him.

He smirks and quietly makes his way around the building, well out of view of the motion above him. Up the backside of another building. Just edging the side of a chimney.

He can see the ange, the graceful sweep of wings. Back turned. Unsuspecting.

It's nothing to silently extend the bo staff, to use it as leverage to fling himself off the building and into the ange. They fall, together this time, and he keeps Angel well beneath him, twisting one arm into his to finish his attack.

\- xx -

"Well, that was a nice demonstration of savate at the end there," Wolverine says wryly, "but not much of what you were expected to do."

He leans back against the wall in the Control Room, shuffling his cards. "And where's the challenge in doing what's expected, mon ami? It be better to use a little style, non?" He grins wickedly despite Ororo's disapproving glance.

Angel brushes himself off a trifle indignantly in his corner. "You were showing off," he says bluntly.

The grin broadens into Cheshire proportions. "Only showing off if it's hard to do."

Wolverine looks up sharply at that.

He puts the cards away abruptly. "Going for a smoke." And he vanishes into the corridor.

\- xx -

He's still damp with sweat and sore from his fight when he reenters his room, a small, nondescript number with only the requisite furniture such as desk, chair, bookshelf, and bed. It does come with an attached bathroom, however, and he's more than ready for a shower. He slides off his trench coat, drops it in the chair, and starts going for the boots when he notices he's not alone.

His eyes appreciatively follow the creamy, slender bare legs up to the short green skirt, the tiniest sliver of exposed flesh beneath a white tank top fitted to her curves, the smooth, sleek shoulders and arms, the mark on her neck, the pretty face turned slightly away so he cannot see her eyes, and then the pure white leading to long chestnut tresses.

"Bonjour, chèrie." He flashes her a predatory grin.

She shifts a little, seeming almost uncomfortable.

He traces his gaze over her curves once more and tilts his head appraisingly. The leather she wore this morning was very complimentary. He liked the way it made her seem both dangerous and sexy, enough to drive a man to distraction, and the way it took away a part of his guilt at stealing her innocence.

She's used to danger.

But this…

She looks so sweet, so innocent, so perfect, and yet so vulnerable to him, the bruise on her throat where his teeth put it. An almost shyness surrounds her and he wonders, briefly, which part is more her than the other. He wants to know.

He crosses the room and cups her chin in his hand, drawing her face up to see her eyes. She studies him with a calm steadiness he wasn't expecting.

"Missed you," she says quietly.

The words wash over him but do not—cannot—sink in.

He studies her honest expression, her dancing emerald eyes, daring him to believe her.

"Why?" he asks. His hand slides upward to cradle the side of her face.

Her breath is soft and warm on him. Her gaze flicks away then in that way she has, but she draws it back up and lifts her chin slightly, haughtily.

It only makes her more beautiful.

"I have my reasons," she states.

He clucks disapprovingly. "Hardly honest, chèrie."

"You asked for me." Her eyes flicker for a moment and glance downward over his body. He has to repress a grin. They flash as she brings them back to his face. "Not honesty."

He stares at her, any trace of gentleness gone now from his emotions. "And that's all you want? Honesty and then you're mine, non?" He doesn't keep the hard cynicism from his voice or lighten his words for her.

She wants _honesty_.

She eyes him warily. But then something softens about her eyes, and he feels a slight tug in his own heart's response.

"Gambit." Her voice is as soft as her eyes.

He leans in close, pressing his forehead to hers, and he doesn't even think about what he was wanting when he came in, only her. Here. Now.

"You're real," she breathes.

He listens to her words and even more to what's behind them. She missed him. He's real.

His hand moves back to her hair, and he feels the strands gliding around his fingers and wonders at the softness. He leans down, closer to her. She doesn't pull away. Her arms slide up his chest, wind around his neck, tug him nearer and they kiss. She tastes heavenly and warm.

"Chère," he whispers, wanting her.

They move further onto the bed, slowly unwrapping each other. He pauses when he reaches her underwear.

"Do you want this, chère?"

His mouth is close to her ear, and she shivers in response.

"Yes." And she pulls him down for another kiss.

\- xx -

He's this close to entering her when she stops him.

"Gambit?" she breathes into his ear.

Her fingers slow against the back of his neck, but he does not slow in what he's doing to her. His hands rove lower; his kisses burn a trail over her collar bone to nestle against her neck. He makes some vague sound as if he's listening, but then he's kissing her mouth, deepening it slowly until she pushes against him, desperate for air.

She tries again when he pulls away for a breath. "Gambit."

His eyes focus on her. They are brilliantly red, fiery and burning, so she nearly drowns in the intensity. "What?" he pants. He pulls away slightly, impatiently, his hands dancing restlessly in place.

She is breathing heavily herself, and it takes more out of her than she'd like to admit to ask her question. "Does this mean something?"

He stares at her, something flickering in his eyes. He lets out a ragged chuckle and presses his forehead to hers. "You sure pick the worst times to talk, chère." And the something in his eyes becomes amusement mingling faintly with the desire.

"But does it?" she insists. She twines her fingers into his hair and tugs back lightly to see him better.

He stares at her, eyes darkening, the glow dimming. "Oui, ma chère. Now..." He leans in close and whispers. "Stop talking."


	3. The Gambit's Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to **Wanda W** , my beta. You are amazing! (Plus, she's a wonderful writer. Check out _Just Another Day_.)

He wasn't really intending to sleep, but the darkness around him has shifted with the hours when he finds himself waking, cradled in her arms, head resting against the soft, warm skin over her heart so he can hear the steady beat of it. Her subtly sweet fragrance wraps its tendrils around him, and her fingers are woven into his hair.

Something in the gesture makes him shudder. He slides out of her embrace to look down at her.

Her hair is tousled and fanning out over the pillow, clinging to her luscious curves. The sheets have tangled about her hips. He studies the sweetness of her innocent sleep, the dark bruises marring her pale flesh, the way she has pressed close to him in the night. He touches the marks along her hips, just barely skimming, and he feels the tiniest pang of remorse.

She is so beautiful.

And far too innocent yet.

He leans in close to her, breathing her in and breathing out against her. He kisses her gently, tenderly, nuzzling her chin, her neck, her mouth. She whimpers in protest and curls a little tighter in on herself. He chuckles softly and continues to taste her, finally lightly nipping the soft curve of her jaw where it joins the neck.

"Mm." Her arms slide up around him, warmth against his shoulders and back, and her fingers tangle into his hair again. Her pulse quickens beneath him. She meets his kiss and he loses himself in her heat and flavor.

"Rogue..." he breathes.

"Hmm?"

Her grip on him tightens. One leg slides against his in a slow, trailing burn, and he has to pull away before she can distract him.

"Why were you there that night?" He wraps one hand in her long tresses, holding her as he stares down into her still sleepy emerald eyes.

They cloud over at his question. Her breath hitches, pauses, then resumes as her face closes against him.

Something inside him tightens at the expression.

 _"You asked for me," she told him. "Not honesty."_

"I have my reasons," she says. The softness is gone from her voice.

He shoves her away, angry. She watches him throw his legs out of the bed and step onto the carpet, uncaring of his nakedness. He turns away from her and rummages in the drawer of his nightstand to pull out his cigarettes.

She sighs and he hears her move in the covers. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her gathering them around her and sitting up on the bed.

Stormy doesn't like him smoking indoors, so for her, he opens the window and stands beside it before lighting up. He breathes in the smoke and the nicotine and lets the cool night air wash over him. He leans one arm against the wall.

He doesn't want to think about why it bothers him. He doesn't want to _feel_.

He curses.

"You're angry," she says softly, the faintest hint of wonder in her tone.

He turns to look at her then. He answers harshly, "You think?" He stares at her even gaze, the gleaming emerald eyes, like jewels in the darkness of the night.

"Why?" she asks, calmly, evenly, unmoved.

 _Dieu_ , he _wants_ to move her. He wants to touch her, to get under her skin as much as she's gotten under his. And he wants _her_.

He turns back to the window and runs one hand through his hair, holding the cigarette away, muttering Cajun curses. He looks at her again with an intentness that finally draws a reaction. She inhales sharply, eyes widening. Realization flashes across her face. He draws his gaze deliberately, slowly over her body, drinking in the smooth, creamy shoulders, the fullness of her breasts, the tantalizing curve of her hips. His eyes drop lower and he can hear her catch her breath.

There is nothing soft or gentle about this and when he looks back up at her eyes, it is with hunger and warning.

Her eyes shutter halfway and the green beneath the lids is violent and heady.

"Do you feel it?" he asks as evenly as she had.

A shudder runs over her body from the crown of her silken hair and down through her shoulders and arms. She nods.

 _"If you want me, I better feel it," she said. So harsh. "If you're angry, I want your anger. I want your touch, you, to never lie to me, Gambit."_

 _He studied her._

 _So harsh. So vulnerable._

He tosses aside the cigarette and goes to her.

 _He should have known._

He is not gentle as he leans in this achingly close to her mouth and whispers, "I won't lie."

\- xx -

He takes her as roughly as he ever did a woman. He is angry at her. He's angry at himself for wanting her. But the need within him to move her, stir her as he is stirred, is feverish and he ravishes her thoroughly with his hands, his teeth, his desire, leaving no part of her untouched as she moans beneath him. Her arms and legs embrace him, and she responds, almost without thought. Her hips rise to meet his; her skin arches beneath his touch.

"Gambit," she gasps, her body tightening around him even more.

He groans against her. She's so tight, so close. She tries desperately to breathe. Her nails dig into his arms with a pleasurable pain. Suddenly, she cries out in his ear, sharp and loud.

Something loosens inside of him. He gentles then, whispering softly, murmuring against her hair. He continues to drive into her until he finds his own release.

They lie tangled together, breathing heavily in the still darkness.

Her hands reach up tentatively to smooth back the hairs that have fallen in his eyes, dark with sweat, and he cannot be angry with her, be rough with her any more. He kisses her tenderly beneath her chin, in the hollow of her neck, breathing into the silky smooth surface, then trailing back up to her mouth to linger there. She invites him in and they taste each other, mingling their tongues and winding their limbs together.

"What do you want, chérie?" he whispers against her.

She inhales shakily and he realizes she's still trembling. He soothes her with his hands, his tongue, his mouth. He holds her gaze and slowly her breath begins to even and the violent green of her eyes softens as she focuses on him.

He nuzzles her just below her ear. Her eyes close and she shifts closer to him.

"Tell me," he murmurs.

"Something real." Her fingers brush delicately against his stubble.

He moves lower and she makes a quiet, almost strangled sound in the back of her throat.

"And this," he says, "this is real?" He continues to stroke her, calming the tense limbs, then he draws his head up to meet her gaze when she does not speak. He pauses in his motion and studies her intently. Her eyes are hazy and unfocused, still caught up in what he was doing. "Chère?"

She looks at him, forces herself to focus on him. She seems to see so much more than he would ever want to expose with those wide, glittering eyes as they soften with meaning.

"You're real," she murmurs and draws him back into her arms, stroking his hair with her fingers as if offering comfort. "You are."

He cradles her gently, almost tenderly, and whispers to her in French, lulling her back to the peace he disturbed.

\- xx -

He showers thoroughly.

 _"You break her heart, I'll break your legs." Wolverine meant it. The fierce look in the man's eyes was something he had felt before, something he could understand._

 _"Je comprends."_

 _He'd rarely said it truer._

He swears as he lets the water wash over him, washing her scent, her flavor down the gurgling drain. What is he doing here, an X-Man? The thought is bitter, tainted with too much history with too many women and one almost intolerable wise old telepath.

Xavier.

He grinds his teeth together and wonders what it is that keeps drawing him back to this place. Sage, Stormy, Rogue...

 _"He's chosen me to betray," Sage told him, eyes hurt and uncomprehending. "Why? Am I not good enough or strong enough to be a hero?" she demanded._

 _He had no answer for her. If anyone knew how to betray, it was him._

Too much history.

Always the X-Men.

He slams the spigot to the right, not stopping to watch the water sputter into a few falling droplets, and steps out of the shower to wrap a towel around his waist. He doesn't dry his wet hair and skin, just steps out into the room and looks at Rogue, peacefully asleep again.

She's on her side, her face turned toward him, a soft smile on her lips as if her dreams are sweet.

His eyes darken on her resting form.

What he has with Rogue was _his_ from the very beginning. Not Stormy's. Not the X-Men's. Not Wolverine's.

He mutters a curse, like a comfort to himself, and returns to the bathroom to pull on some clothes.

He'll keep it that way.

\- xx -

She leaves an empty room and a cold bed in the morning. She doesn't stop to wonder where he has gone. Some things are too simple to interpret, some things too complicated to misunderstand.

She is glad she thought to bring a bag when she slipped into his room. When she emerges, she is dressed in her leather bodysuit, hair fresh, duffel bag slung over her shoulder, like she just came back from the Danger Room.

It's a short walk to her own room to drop off her things and take a long look in the mirror, freshen up, add makeup, all the little things that make up her morning. She tries not to think too much, too hard. She doesn't want to remember the look in his eyes when she wouldn't tell him why she sought him out the first time.

It isn't something she's really told anyone. The answer's all wrapped up in a girl that's forgotten how to meet another person on common ground, forgotten how to stop fighting. It's easier this way.

She double checks her lipstick and mascara, the fine little details that make up so much of the big picture. She tries not to think about the man who's forcing her to remember what it's like to _feel_ , when she's spent so much of her time learning how to not. She sighs, closing up the open tubes and boxes and putting them away on the bureau.

One last glance in the mirror reveals a pretty face, a deadly smile, a tough girl in her fighting gear. Ready for the battle once more.

It's so much easier to keep forgetting, never looking herself at the answers to his questions, the ones he asks with his knowing devil eyes as well as the ones he asks with his tongue. _It's easier_ , she thinks, _to just keep fighting_.

\- xx -

Warren greets her with an easy smile at breakfast. She gives him one in return.

"Hey, sugar." She pulls out cereal from the pantry and joins him at the table.

He slides her the milk.

They are silent for a moment as she pours her cereal. It makes light pinging sounds in the bowl. She fills it with milk to the brim.

He chuckles at her.

She shrugs, but smiles, before taking a bite.

"Good run?" he asks, indicating her uniform with a nod.

She shrugs again.

It was a very good run.

"Hey," he says, looking as if he's suddenly remembered something. "Did you still need that time off?"

She swallows hard at the sick feeling spilling into her gut. She looks at him as if he's wounded her, even if he has no idea why.

He pauses, hesitates at the expression. "You all right?"

"No," she says, setting down her spoon. "I don't."

She gets up from the table, walks over to the sink, and scrapes the last of her food down the drain.

\- xx -

He doesn't bother knocking.

It's too simple, and too fun anticipating the consequences, to do a quick job and pick the lock. The door swings open and he's stepping into the mansion's attic.

It is filled to the brim with an abundance of overflowing green plants and a few of other colors. He has to knock leaves out of his way to enter. The smell is fresh, clean, with faint traces of ozone. A cool breeze wafts through.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's polite to knock before entering?" There is a slightly miffed note to the dignified tones.

He chuckles and moves forward. "Stormy."

He stops when she is in view, leaning over a plant to water it. He hooks his thumbs into his pockets and tilts his head, studying her. Time has treated her well. She's as beautiful as ever, as regal, soft white hair swirling against her dark skin, eyes bright and intelligent.

"Did you just come up to stare?" she asks while looking pointedly at a watering can. "Make yourself useful."

"Oui, Stormy."

She looks up sharply at his tone and finds the wicked smirk waiting for her. He dangles the can from his fingers.

"On second thought," she says as she eyes him warily, "don't."

He laughs out loud at that, and she gives him a tentative answering smile.

"You're doing well."

"Maybe." He drops into a chair and looks at her askance. "Just one little weather goddess takes care of all these plants, a team of mutant vigilantes, _and_ a school? However do you manage it?"

"Don't start," she huffs. She gives a forlorn look around at her small, cozy jungle. "I don't know how _he_ did it."

"He was a telepath, chère."

She sighs and wipes her hands off on a cloth, then joins him in the other chair. "I have an assignment for you."

"That so?" He lifts an eyebrow.

"Yes. That's so." She gives him a look to behave. "The security in this mansion hasn't been updated in over three years. I want you to go over it and tell me what needs fixing. Can you do that?"

He shrugs and slouches lower in the seat. "Oui."

"Okay then."

They both fall silent, and he waits, knowing she has more to say. She is chewing on her lower lip, twisting a strand of perfect white hair around her finger.

"Just say it, Stormy," he finally tells her.

She sighs and drops her hand to her lap. "Why must you be so trying?"

His mouth quirks into an amused smirk. "I'm pretty sure that wasn't your question."

"How exactly do you know Rogue?" She gives him a penetrating headlong gaze.

He immediately slips into his mask, that of the Thief that never gives a straight answer. He shrugs. "Figure that's hers to tell."

"I know you better," she replies stubbornly.

"Oui." He stands and fixes her with a pointed stare. "You do."

"Remy..."

"Au revoir, chère."

She lets him go. She has no choice.


	4. The Gambit's Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to **Wanda W** , my beta.

She's moving about in the Danger Room, circling Logan. She whirls on him, swinging her leg out in a vicious kick and catching him on the chin. He starts to stumble backward, but shoots out a hand to try and take her with him. She grunts and throws herself out of the way.

A foot apart from each other on the Danger Room floor, they don't even stop to catch their breath.

He rolls over, claws unsheathed. She leaps up from the ground, and it's back to punches and kicks, grunts and groans, as one or the other makes contact. He's a harsh, brutal force that just keeps coming back and coming back. She dances lightly around his attacks, then launches into her own with as much brutality.

He meets her with a right hook. She deflects it off her arm and swings her other fist towards his gut. He catches the hand, twists it, and she drops with a cry, promptly swiveling her legs beneath her to wrap around one of his and successfully yanks him down after her.

They grapple and roll. His claws come out again, near her face. She uses her flexible limbs to great effect, locking down his legs and digging the elbow of her free arm into his neck. He can't reach her with his claws unless he releases the arm he's still twisting. Shooting pains run up that member, but she ignores the pain, struggling and growling as she fights for an advantage.

He twists the limb further and suddenly she cries out, unable to contain it. Her body follows after it, easing the pain somewhat.

"Now that I got your attention, kid..." he says.

Her head comes up in surprise and she gives him a curious look. She's still looking for a way to fight him, to regain some sort of advantage.

Logan starts to pin her down. "What's with you and Gumbo?" he says. He grunts when her knee finds purchase and slams into his belly.

"I don't"—she catches the back of his knee, hard—"know what"—he rolls on top of her, not bothering to support the crushing weight of his adamantium skeleton—"you're talking"—the breath shoots out of her with a whoosh, but she still manages to finish her sentence—"about."

She suddenly worms her good arm under his and pulls hard, flipping him over and landing on top of his back, pinning him down on his stomach and her arm beneath him. She bites back the pain and hangs her head down into his face. "Surrender?"

He tries to be stronger than her and throw her off, but she smirks as she stays neatly on top, allowing physics to do her work for her. She is holding down the mighty Wolverine.

"Fine," Logan says with a huff. He releases her arm and rolls away from her.

The pain hits her then in full. She lets out a _loud_ string of curses and yanks up the sleeve, checking for injury. "You could have dislocated it," she protests, rubbing at the bruises Logan has added to her growing collection.

He changes the subject. "You know exactly what I'm talking about it." Something hard and unyielding looks back at her from his eyes.

She sighs and rolls her own. "Men," she mutters.

"Rogue..." His exasperation, drawn out impatience, his knowing expression, it's all a part of their close relationship that has lasted from the time he first gave her a candy bar to eat and admitted to her his name.

Yet and still, a small part of her twinges, swings viciously into play, plucking the tendrils of unhappiness that have spent the last few years settling into her being. He doesn't trust her. He doesn't think she can handle what she has begun. She turns away from him.

"I promised Warren I'd do the routine scans on Cerebro," she says casually. "Coming?"

She can hear the low growl of frustration rumbling in his chest, though he bites it off at the mouth. But he follows her.

"Kid, you can't trust him," he says.

She glares at him, but does not answer.

He sighs and watches her shut down the Danger Room simulation, close out their session, and lock the doors behind her.

"I never asked your opinion, Logan," she replies, turning away, walking away, making it clear that is the end of the matter.

The silence that falls between them is surprisingly comfortable as they walk along the hallways of the mansion's sublevels. Disagreement has never been bitter to them. Their respect for each other is too strong. They reach the doors to Cerebro still wrapped up in silence. It holds a sort of reverence now as she goes about the work of typing in the security code, kneeling for her retinal scan, waiting as he waits for his.

They are cleared. The doors open. They walk into the inner sanctum, the workplace, and the refuge of the man behind the dream, the X-Men, the school, Charles Xavier.

She lopes down the straight catwalk, conscious of the belt slung around her hips with the symbol X marked clearly on it. She's always so conscious of those little things that make her part of his dream when she enters this room. It seems impossible, unthinkable, that he is dead.

But he is.

He has been since Alcatraz, and she is on her own in maintaining the dream and it's viability in her heart. She's the only one in her mind keeping it alive, the only convincing her that staying here with no powers was the right thing to do, fighting for the dream that mutants and baseline humans _can_ work together. For a time, she was proof that it was true.

She reaches the control center of Cerebro and enters her pass code into the database.

Logan follows her, watches as she works over the controls, does her evaluations, runs her scans, double-checks security measures...halts, one gloved hand frozen over the panel.

"That son of a—" She cuts herself off abruptly. She kills the graphic twirling across the small display before Logan can see it. "Logan, wrap this up, would ya? I gotta go."

"Rogue, what?"

But she doesn't wait to hear it.

\- xx -

He had taken one glance at the clock, seen the early hour, and collapsed back onto his bed. It smelled like her. He got up, changed the sheets, and tried again. Finally, he _had_ slept, slowly sinking into wearing dreams and painful memories.

 _"Remy-cher. You_ know _I want you," she told him._

 _He looked into her bright blue eyes, traced one hand across her supple body. What did it matter when her brother wanted him dead?_

 _He held her to him anyway, possessively, studying her._

 _The abundance of her golden curls. The warmth of her curves. The cold, sharp prick of her knife at his throat..._

He wakes instantly, arms up and grappling with the heavy weight of a leather-clad body above his. He struggles with the feminine form, remembering an Assassin, blonde curls trailing.

Is she really trying to kill him?

Suddenly in the pushing away, he recognizes silvery white hair, familiar curves, and the angry flash of green. He grips her arms to hold her up and still.

"Rogue?" he demands, disbelieving.

But she has effectively pinned him beneath her between her legs, one arm holding down his own, one hand pressing a knife near to his throat, and it hits him like a shock, hard, pummeling his gut. He has allowed her too close, _too_ familiar, _too_ much a part of him.

He didn't wake up.

His thoughts race, calculate the distance from door to bed, realize with horror that her presence did not wake him, stir him from his restless dreams. The implicit _trust_ that denotes rings all of his alarms.

He didn't wake up.

He _always_ does.

"You hacked into the database," she accuses him harshly, and he forces his attention back to her.

Her face hovers above his, features hard, green eyes violent with the fierceness of her feelings, the same color as when she wants him, and the thought is too much. She's no stronger than Bella. With a sudden twist, he grips her wrist, gaining control, charging the blade against his neck. Lurid magenta glow glides up the silver and he warns her with his gaze.

"I can kill you, chére, just as easily as you could kill me," he says, voice light and even. He's spent a lifetime walking among Assassins and knows just the right tone to settle against her.

"Then we'll both die," she states, unyielding, eyes narrowed, hair falling like a curtain around them both.

He curses and tightens his grip on her. She grits her teeth and he _knows_ it hurts her.

"I was _supposed_ to be in there." He wants to shake her. "We're on the same team, chère!"

"Bull." She presses her point with the blade.

"Dieu! I'm a Thief, chère," he says, suddenly exasperated with her misunderstanding. "Were you even _listening_ when Storm introduced me?"

Her eyes darken and he realizes she wasn't.

He gentles his voice slightly. "She asked me to go over the security systems and see how we're doing. You can verify it with her."

He partially reabsorbs the charge, watching the play of light over her face as she suddenly looks uncertain, almost frightened. He takes the rest into his skin and yanks on her wrist while twisting his legs up in hers to roll them over. She cries out sharply and he lands atop her, knocking the breath out of her with a whoosh.

He catches the knife in his hand and raises an eyebrow.

"Believe moi?"

If her arms weren't effectively pinned, they'd be crossing her chest just now as she glares at him with the full impact of her fiery, flashing eyes. He smirks at her, leans in close, painting her face with his breath.

"My estimation of them security systems just went up."

The words draw a reaction as she bucks up against him, flexing her legs and nearly unseating him. But he has too much experience in this position, and he holds her down, grinning broadly, enjoying the burn her struggles ignite.

She falls back with a grudging resignation. Her angry glare still spears him. "Let me up, Gambit," she mutters.

"Don't think so, chérie," he says blithely, drawing a startled glance. "Don't think it's safe." He smirks, draws the edge of the knife down near her breast.

"Lord, you swamp rat!" Her knee comes up and catches him inside his leg at the same time that one of her arms pulls him nearly under her in a play for control.

He tightens his grip on her, rolling with her, entwining their limbs even further when she takes dominance.

He clucks at her. "If you wanted the top, you only had to say so." He grins at her flushed face, the surprise in her eyes, the hair falling down about him in wild beauty after their tussle. He hauls her up against him with his arms and their faces are mere centimeters away, warming the same air with their heaving breaths, and he catches himself in her gaze, in the play of emotions across her face, in the fear and the desire, the uncertainty, the wanting, the breathing...

 _Dieu,_ she's so beautiful _._

"Rogue," he whispers.

 _His brother always laughed at him and the multitude of endearments he lavished upon women._

 _"Do you ever call them by name?" his brother asked, already knowing the answer._

 _"Why should I?" He merely shrugged it off. "They don't_ have _a name."_

 _For a night or an hour, nameless, faceless beauty._

"Rogue," he whispers again, savoring the sound, and she stares at him, not comprehending the meaning, yet utterly wrapped up in the moment.

He's not holding her so tightly any more, and she could break away so easily, but neither of them notice. Her hands wind down around his neck and she closes the gap between them with a searing, passionate kiss.

\- xx -

Fire burns across their skin.

He can't get enough of her. Her taste. Her scent. The _feel_ of her. Heat and moist skin and silken hair beneath him. For once, it's a struggle as she fights for dominance, then surrenders to him with a fierceness belying her softness. He runs his fingers across her thighs, his teeth across her neck, one hand buried in the softness of her hair. Her heat burns him and for once, he doesn't fight it.

It's the first time she isn't a virgin to him.

She _knows_ him now and her hands trail across him, exploring him, fisting her hands in his shirt, pulling it off, and shoving it away. Her legs wind around his waist and he groans as she presses against him, then rolls them over again, taking the top.

"Rogue," he whispers, drunk on her name, her fire, her heat.

He catches the zipper of her leather bodysuit in his teeth, and he feels her gasp, the stiffening of her body as he pulls it down, kissing the flesh revealed beneath, across her breasts, her stomach, lower. She begins to writhe.

"Gambit..."

He pulls away and rolls them over again, pressing his weight against her. A low, keening moan starts from somewhere in her throat before pushing through her lips.

"Believe moi?" he asks, holding her down, not moving, not allowing her to move.

Her back arches upward, her body desperately trying to maintain their burning dance. "Yes," she whispers, the sound ragged and harsh. She starts to make some sound but catches it back into her throat. Her nails dig into his shoulders, pulling him closer.

He lowers his head to hers and takes her surrender.

\- xx -

He smokes a cigarette after, surprised at himself, wondering if it was only charm that drew her to him, that quieted the raging beast of her suspicion and fury, or if just _maybe_...

He shouldn't be doing this to himself. He knows it.

He stares down at her, her faintly ragged breathing, the way her eyes have captured his and soften on his face, so knowing, as unreadable as his own.

He cannot look away.


	5. The Gambit's Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to **Wanda W** , my beta. She is _amazing_. I know this took a while _after_ I got off hiatus, but unfortunately, that's typical with the more intense fics. I need to finesse them more, then send them to beta, then finesse them _more_. Hope you like.

Her fingers slide across his skin, tentatively at first. She glances up again and their gazes lock. He hears the slight intake of her breath, sees the glimmer of boldness in those fascinating emeralds. Her hand slides comfortably over his thigh, and she lays her head atop it. He does not push her away.

"Gambit." Her voice is soft.

He reaches down and brushes his hand against her face, cradling the smooth curve of her jaw, tangling in her cloud of hair. Her eyes shut. He studies her while stroking her soft skin.

Her breath hitches, then releases as a long sigh. She shifts against him, opens her eyes again, and asks, "How come we never talk without having sex?"

 _Talk?_

He laughs and bends to capture her stolen breath with a brief kiss before settling down on the bed again beside her.

"You call that talk?" He shakes his head at her. "Next time you get in a tussle with a man, chère, you best be prepared for the consequences."

But he considers as he trails his fingers up and down her ribs, deliberately teasing her. She's quiet in his arms, waiting perhaps for him to speak. Maybe time to lay down his cards?

Silence stretches for a long moment. He presses a warm kiss below her ear on the most sensitive spot on her neck. She catches in her gasp. Something twinges, but he doesn't stop to analyze it. He moves upward, nipping her ear, then whispers against her skin. "What would you rather?"

She shudders at the contact.

For a long moment, the words hang. She's still recovering from the way he manipulates her body. Then she pauses, and he feels the moment she realizes just what he's asked.

She shakes her head, a ripple of satin mahogany across his chest. "Nothing you don't want to do." She turns her face, but not before he catches her frown or feels her nails lightly score his arm.

 _"Touch that isn't a lie," she had said. "He touched me when he didn't want me. He touched me like he cared."_

"Touch," he mutters.

She sits up partway, leaning an arm against him to frown as she stares into the bright glow of his eyes in the darkness of his room.

"Who cheated on you, chère?" he asks. Irritation flashes in the words, but this time, it is not directed at her.

She stares at him, cocks her head, eyes clouding briefly. For a long moment, they say nothing, but then a slight shrug of her shoulders. Her fingers dance restlessly on his chest where her hand lies.

He thinks of Iceman and green eyes of unrestrained fury.

 _She rounded on the homme, gripping his arm hard and deliberately removing his hand from her uncovered skin._

 _He watched from the doorway as the two spoke softly, sharply to each other, felt the twinge of jealousy at their nearness, knowing even so that there was no love lost between them._

His hand tightens on her arm. He slides it lower, curving possessively around her hips.

Her hair falls down around his face and they continue to look at each other, not speaking, until he breaks the silence with a Cajun curse.

"It doesn't matter," she says, her chin lifting, those eyes darkening to the color of the forest at night.

 _It always mattered_.

"Like hell." He narrows his eyes at her.

She glares at him. "And where do you come off saying what does and doesn't matter to _me_?"

His grip tightens once more and he draws her even closer. "You forget, chère, you're _mine_."

He can almost see the steam coming off her as she yanks herself hard out of his grip. He lets her and rolls over with a sigh as she throws her legs over the side of the bed.

"You arrogant, cocky, womanizing—" Her voice rises with each epitaph, but he cuts her over smoothly mid-sentence.

"When you play with the devil, chérie, that's what you get."

He lets the charge flare dangerously close to the surface, lighting a blazing itch of raw energy just beneath his skin, knowing that she can see it in his eyes, the fires that earned him the name of Diable Blanc.

She sees but her anger burns as brightly. She throws back the covers to get off the bed and snatches up her bra from the floor where it had fallen.

He frowns at her back.

She feels him staring, stiffens. "What, Cajun?" She tosses him a narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder.

He reaches for her arm, gently this time. She flinches away, but he catches her firmly and draws her closer while turning on the lamp with his other hand. He ghosts his fingers down the heavy discoloration on her ribs and arms that he knows he did not put there.

"Where'd you get these?" he whispers. He tugs her chin up to make her look at him.

Her eyes soften in startled vulnerability for a brief, tantalizing moment. Then her chin comes up and her tone is cold. "Why do you care?"

Anger flashes through him. He releases her abruptly and she stumbles back a half-step.

"Get out."

Pure bewilderment paints her face. "What?"

"I said, 'Out,'" he says, measuring the words slowly. She can see how much he means them.

Emerald sparks and her jaw tightens. She yanks her bodysuit off the floor and he watches her as she slowly slides it over her skin. The sight of it stirs something inside him, but he quells the feelings beneath churning wrath.

She zips up the suit and glances toward him.

"Good day, Cajun," she says icily before turning heel and leaving.

She never once looks back.

\- xx -

She's barely out of the room when he's up and off the bed, throwing on his own clothes, gathering cards, cigarettes, bo staff, all the things he needs for the place he intends to go. He shoves a wallet in his pocket and sunglasses over his eyes. He doesn't bother to wash. Today he doesn't care a bit about what the Wolverine thinks of him or of them.

It's the work of a few moments to be striding quickly down the mansion hallways toward the front door.

He mutters a steady stream of curse words, but then pauses when he reaches the door and glances around. He finds the source of irritation quickly.

"You got a problem, homme?" he demands of Iceman, sitting off in a corner of the big couch in sight of the door and staring at him with distaste.

Iceman shrugs. "It's a free country."

He narrows his eyes at the man. Too young, self-assured, self- _righteous_. All these X-Men, so certain theirs was the only way to save the world.

 _"We do not kill here, Gambit," the Professor explained calmly._

 _Marvel Girl and Cyclops stared wide-eyed at the end of the Danger Room session. Storm merely furrowed her brow. Sage said nothing at all._

 _"D'accord," he replied smoothly, deadpan._

 _He agreed because it was the Professor's house—not because he took the man's morals for his own._

"What makes you think you have a right to her?"

He returns his focus to the Iceman, who thinks—honestly, with pure, undiluted sincerity—that he has the right to ask such a question. He sneers at him.

"Least I know not to cheat on a woman I care about."

Iceman's face flushes.

He smiles, sliding it into a smirk, then gives a last two-fingered salute before walking out the door.

This anger, this frustration is best served by a ride on a motorcycle (preferably not his), a round of drink, and a few rounds of poker.

They don't call him Gambit for nothing.

\- xx -

She moves with startling speed down the hallways of the mansion. She passes Angel in the hall and he stops, staring at her, but she jerks her head away so he can't make out her face. She's in the elevator before he can turn, can call out to her. The hiss of the doors shutting drowns out her own name.

She punches the button for the lower levels, then leans her head against the back with a weary sigh. She just can't _take..._

 _"Where did you get these?" His voice was so gentle, so_ tender.

 _For one heart-stopping moment, she just wanted to reach for him, have him hold her. For a million reasons, that was a bad, bad idea._

"You're in over your head," she mutters.

No one _ever_ cared. No one but Logan. Not her mother. Not her father. Not her Aunt Carrie. Not even Bobby. She has no apparatus, no experience with caring to draw on. Nothing but a handful of memories from two inscrutable, dangerous men.

 _"I was fine this time," she insisted._

 _His red and black eyes snared her and he leaned in to kiss her. "But you might not have been."_

 _"Why do you even care?"_

 _He hadn't answered. But he had. She had seen it in his eyes, felt it in his touch, firm enough to restrain but too gentle to harm._

No one ever cared. She wishes that were still true.

The elevator chimes her arrival, yanking her out of her reflection. Game face.

She's out and into the Danger Room, punching in her code, calling up the hardest, toughest, roughest, grittiest Logan program she can remember. Almost as an afterthought, she commands, "Safeties off. Security override: Rogue." She gives her passcode when prompted.

Shadows fall around her with tangible, malevolent force. Her mind gives shapes and faces to the seething darkness. Gambit. Iceman. Magneto. Mystique. Lithe, dark forms glide about the corners and eerie patterns of falling shadow. They are like walls and traffic, these shadows. They're alive.

She draws her arms inward and relaxes into a cat stance. Clearly, she's bumped into one of Logan's Japanese warrior programs.

 _"Listen to the silence. Silence never lies."_

A form flies out of the shadow and her leg is up, arm feinting before she even registers the slip into action. She catches a moving body behind her by the throat and rolls between two swords. The shadows coalesce around her and she counts the flash of arms, of legs, even while dodging, kicking, slipping through the shadow like a shadow herself. Six.

She lands in the center of a now clearly visible ring.

Shadows dance about the edges. Within is clearly lit. The six black-robed forms stand around the rim. Cowled ninja warriors of some kind. Hands pressed together as if in prayer. Naked swords at one's belt. Katanas at another's. More weapons. More hands. They bow.

She swallows and bows in turn.

One still moment.

The battle is on.

They move like lightning, attacking in sequence, drawing her out. She flips over one's sword, hits another on her way down, barely avoiding a staff on her back. Executes a swift block on her way back up, catches a flying arm and sends the body sailing over her.

It's the perfect way to stop thinking, stop feeling.

Snap out of it, Rogue. Stay _alive_.

She lets go then, forgets her anger, her fears, her restless thoughts and gives in to the breathless, demanding task of survival. She doesn't know how long she battles, only knows her arms begin to ache and her lungs begin to hurt at having to take in yet more oxygen to keep going, and she's slipping and sliding in the blood and sweat that comes from these fights. Three of her opponents are down and a sword is lifted over her head. She raises a block and then...

Everything freezes before slowly fading away.

She blinks. "What?"

Craning her head from side to side, she tries to determine what happened, _who_ happened, and then her eyes narrow at the Danger Room doors and at the figure walking through them. He crosses his arms over a bare chest and folds his wings down.

"Rogue," he says.

It's surprising, really, just how good of a team leader this relative newbie makes, but she struggles to her feet and gives him enough respect to turn and listen rather than brush him off.

He shakes his head at her. "I've told you not to do this."

"What?" she retorts harshly. "You command my personal life too now?"

He flinches back, surprised, then studies her, frowning.

Seething, she palms the blade she brought in here and cleans it against her hip, drawing a grimace from Warren. "I don't need you telling me how to fight," she states, glances up, cocks an eyebrow.

"Rogue..." But he's shaking his head at her, defeated for now. "We have a debriefing in the War Room. You coming?"

The War Room. Something important then. She sighs, releasing her anger in that breath, and nods quickly. She brushes past him out of the room.

She doesn't want to talk to Warren.

Not about this.

\- xx -

Storm dominates the meeting. The weather goddess is good at that, and she wonders if Storm even realizes that the X-Men operate under their own triumvirate of Storm, Wolverine, and Angel.

Probably not.

A quick look around the War Room reveals the gathered team is missing one of its members. Where is Gambit?

"We have received information from a trusted source,"—she keys back into Storm's words—"that serious trouble is brewing ahead for mutants. While the missing mutants seem to be in line with a possible resurrected Brotherhood in their general dispositions, we cannot rule out more troubling possibilities."

Like the growing threats of Purifiers, Friends of Humanity, and a hush-hush government program known as Zero Tolerance certain fringe politicians want to get approved for federal funding and authority.

Or even something the X-Men don't yet know about.

"Has Hank heard anything on this?" Logan asks.

Anxious faces turn back to Storm, but she shakes her head.

"He hadn't even heard of the twenty-three missing. And I'm afraid the number is only growing. But,"—Storm glances meaningfully toward Jubilee—"we have received some reports about two sources that potentially know something."

"And we're going to ask them to spill," Logan says, not asking. He gives a nod of pride and acknowledgement toward Jubilee.

The Asian teen just blows out another bubble of gum. She has one leg crossed over the other, foot propped on the edge of the conference table. She's just so unassuming, she's acquired quite a knack for intelligence work.

"Yes," Storm replies cautiously. "Angel?"

She sits forward. Clearly, this is where things get interesting.

Warren leans forward also, resting his bare arms on the table, hands clasped together. "We're going to send in two teams. One of the possible sources is a woman, the proprietor of a well-to-do restaurant establishment. Storm and I will be going there as a dinner party, along with Logan for backup."

Logan growled lightly, crossing his arms over his chest. Laidback, gentleman plans were never his thing and subtlety isn't much either.

But then Warren smiles at her and she gets a slight queasy feeling about what comes next.

"Rogue, you and Gambit are going to take the other source," he says. "It's a gambler who frequents a place called Town's End. Storm says that Gambit knows the place well, but that a woman would be best to get information from him."

Both eyebrows come up. "Why?"

Logan's growl isn't so light this time.

Warren directs his next words toward her acknowledged protector. "They won't mess with her while she's with Gambit, but she's the only one with the right skills to get the information we need."

"Besides," Storm says easily, "he has a thing for brunettes."

She catches her breath.

"We're not asking you to do more than flirt with the guy at most," Warren goes on. "Just get him loose enough to talk. That's it. And Gambit will be there to make sure that _nothing_ happens."

"I don't need him," she states sharply.

"Take him," is Logan's rough, unequivocal reply.

That surprises her, but his face is unyielding.

"I don't trust him," he says, "but I know enough about him to know I'd rather him watching your back than you trying to watch your own."

She's outnumbered and there isn't a single face around the table that isn't in agreement—except Bobby's. He is glowering darkly, as jealous as if he owns her. It's for his sake that she hardens her face and nods.

"Fine. Now can someone tell me where the hell he is?"

\- xx -

The burn of bourbon at the back of his throat and in his belly doesn't slow his ability to react and to _think_ , _Dieu_. He shoves the girl away in disgust, at himself more than at her.

The sultry blonde gives him a surprised, injured look.

He turns away from her and pulls himself back together. He went in for a few drinks and walked out with a girl, the last thing he needed to get _her_ out of his head. He can't help but see emerald eyes, burning like green fire, over the tops of this fille's pale, blue orbs. He can't help but feel the softness of rippling mahogany in place of tight, blonde curls. He can't help but smell those soft, sweet, unidentifiable flowers instead of cheap perfume from the department store.

Dieu, he has it bad. He can't get her out from inside him.

The girl has realized he is lost to her and, with a last wounded glance, slides back into her own clothes, and gathering her few things, leaves the way she came.

He doesn't care.

His phone rings.

It takes a ring before he even looks at his coat over the back of a chair. A second ring before he decides whether to look at it. On the third, the phone is in his hand and he glances at the number, curls his lip. On the fourth, he answers.

"Âllo."

"Remy, where are you?" Storm's breathless voice demands. The tone is hard under the question, and he knows she's telling him I needed you here. Things are happening. Why did you leave me?

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, slips into his coat. "My place. Needed some air."

"You needed...What happened, Remy?"

"Down, Stormy." He chuckles even as he pulls the barely mussed sheets off the bed and throws them in the dirty laundry hamper. Doesn't want her smell there. Can't say why it matters. "No need for the warpath, chère, non?"

Storm blows out a breath in a huff. She doesn't believe him.

Can't say he blames her.

"Leave it, chère," he says quietly.

Remarkably, she does. "Fine. Get back here. Now." The line goes dead.

He frowns at his phone thoughtfully. He snaps it shut. With one glance around his apartment, he goes to vanish into the city.


	6. The Gambit's Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great thanks to **Merr2** for helping me figure out how I wanted to get from point A to point B. Thank you to **Heavenmetal** , who stepped in to beta this. She is awesome. Special thanks to **xenokattz** 's amazing _D'ancanto_ [see her livejournal] for getting this baby's muse back up and running.

She's waiting for him when he walks in the room and flings his coat onto a chair. The way he moves, like a predator, always aware of everything around him and with a dangerous sort of measured grace, makes her shift uncomfortably where she stands, but those devil eyes barely flicker over her before he turns and empties his pockets onto the dresser.

She crosses her arms as she studies his back. Not really tense. Not really like he cares that she's there at all. "I talked to Storm."

A Swiss army knife, a full key ring, and a deck of cards scatter across the wood surface. His wallet. Some spare change. A pack of cigarettes. No surprise there.

The detritus should _tell_ something about him, but he's still the same mystery he's always been. She wonders how he could ever have been so close to Storm.

 _"I would trust him with my life. Why do you ask?"_

 _The two women eyed each other warily. It had been far too long since either had understood—or really trusted—the other._

"What are you two?" she asks. "Lovers?"

His head jerks up and his eyes burn into hers through the mirror image. "Stormy? You got to be _kidding_ me." He stares at her, then shakes his head as he looks away.

The silence stretches.

His lips move slightly, and she strains to hear him mutter, "You ruined me."

She blinks. Breath tightens.

He unbuttons his shirt and slides out of it, still treating her as if she isn't even there.

 _She_ ruined _him?_ He doesn't look at her, doesn't even speak to her unless she forces the issue. The tightness inside her coils into the simmering glow of anger. "Where were you?" she demands.

A harsh laugh bubbles out of him. He kicks off his shoes. "Stopping myself from making a mistake." Then he pulls the white undershirt over his head and she's staring at his bare chest.

Exasperation overflows the anger. "Are you intending on stripping the whole way, Gambit?"

He stops, eyebrow raised, finally _looking_ at her and an amused smirk turns up the corner of his mouth. "The thought had occurred to me." He drops the clothes into the open hamper in the closet, then leans against his desk, crossing his own arms in reply. "You had something you wanted to talk about."

She narrows a glare at him. "We _are_ partners, or did you forget that?"

He shrugs. "Haven't been debriefed yet, but got the feeling this ain't _that_ kind of mission."

" _What_ kind?"

"The kind we have to do tonight." He tilts his head and appraises her, starting at her combat boots and then slowly traveling up the entire leather bodysuit, lingering overlong on the curves.

Her face burns under his scrutiny.

He smirks again, less amused this time. "By all means, chérie: debrief moi."

She wants to snap at him to keep his head in the game and off of sex, but by now, she has a feeling he knows the game far better than her. The thought leaves a bad taste at the edges of her mind, and she turns away from him. The keen gaze is easier to take peripherally, but she does not let him fully out of her sight. He's the kind to take advantage.

Her fingers play over the window sill.

"They said he likes brunettes," she finally says—bitterly. Storm may not see the use for her attitude, but she certainly doesn't mind using her talents.

 _"I don't like you doing this," Logan warned her when she first started flirting with strangers in clubs and bars that fell outside of her agreement._

 _She shrugged. "I don't go in the bad ones," she said, still not admitting that it was Gambit that forced her to stick with tamer men and environments._

 _He frowned intensely, hating what she did to herself. The only Cured human on the team, always proving herself, acquiring skills she had no business acquiring._

 _"Don't do this, Rogue. Just..." He stared at her until she finally looked up at him, sullenly, from her vodka. "Just don't."_

He stares at her the same way, dark untrusting in his eyes. He looks at her like a woman ought to be looked at when she pushes herself over the edge of reason just to keep her place. And then he wonders why she won't turn and look at him.

"Why does that matter?" he asks lightly, tone casual. But he's not doing anything. Just standing there, staring at her, and she resists the shiver that wants to crawl up her spine.

She lifts her chin at last. "Take one look at me and you tell _me_ why."

He looks.

The once-over is as brusque and dismissive as her words were earlier. "Never had a preference, me." And all too casual.

She won't admit it stings.

"Oh?" She too can keep her tone light, even if his pointed glance at her skittering fingers gives away how transparent he finds her.

"First woman I loved had blonde hair," he says. His head cants away from her, and it's her turn to force the connection. "The second was brunette."

Love. It seems a word too strong for him. Love? He's a flirt and a charmer, a seducer and a dangerous man. Nothing about him equates to love in her eyes, marriage, settling down. She doubts a woman could tame him.

But she asks anyway. "And the third?"

He stares at her intensely. "The third woman I _care_ about has white."

She catches her breath, then shakes her head hard. "I doubt that," she mutters harshly.

He recoils, shoulders tensing as if he didn't expect her to answer that particular challenge. Then his eyes narrow and the red in them pulses dangerously. "What would you know about it?"

She tastes the acrid flavor of the words before retorting, "You ain't the type, _cher_." She exaggerates the word, emphasizing how meaningless such endearments are when offered to strangers. Like her.

But then he's right there in front of her and she finds herself pinned against the wall.

"What?" he demands. "The type to care?" Real anger colors the words.

She sucks in her breath and opens her mouth to answer, but he cuts her off deliberately.

"You never _let_ me care about you, _Dieu_. You pull me close just to push me away. You think I ain't _capable_ of caring?"

"Don't accuse _me_ of leading you on, Cajun," she bites out. "You're the one who came to _me_."

"And you're the one who made this deal, non?" He backs up, eyes still narrowed. They're glowing on the black, like all the fires of hell. "You want to _feel_ it when I'm _angry_? I ain't going to be your abuser, chère."

She stares at him.

"Where did you get those bruises?"

"The Danger Room, you idiot! I don't take some sick pleasure from pain."

He looms over her, grip tightening once more on her arms. "Then why do you like _this_?"

It hits something inside her and she yells back at him, flinging the words with all the pain behind them. "Because you're honest! Because for once in my life, I don't have to worrry about everything crashing down around me when I find out that this isn't what I think it is!"

She expects some relief, some silence at those words, but he gives her none, just pushes her away in disgust.

"What _is_ this?"

She squirms out of his grasp abruptly. "I asked you for honesty! What more do you need to know?"

She's yelling, breathing ragged as her throat grows raw, but he doesn't give, just yells right back.

"Why won't you give me the same thing?"

"You didn't ask for it!"

"What do you think I asked _for_?"

This time, they do fall silent. She tries to breathe and finds it painful.

He stares at her intently for a long moment before he turns and walks away.

\- xx -

She wants to bang on the walls, to hurt him, to hurt _something_ , but the slickness of blood from the Danger Room and her raw, aching breath has outlasted the violent impulse.

She just can't take—

 _"You never_ let _me care about you,_ Dieu _."_

She paces like a tiger in a cage, wanting to leave, wanting to pound on the door and drag him out for another round. Finally, she slams her palms against the window pane and stares out at the mansion grounds. When did this become personal? His fascination with her had seemed so physical and now she can't shake the feeling that she's in way over her head.

\- xx -

 _"You can have me. All of me." Heart quickening under her touch._

 _He wanted that. Badly._

So why is he still waiting for it?

He goes into the bathroom to wash his face, clear his head; wash his body, clear away the last traces of the bar whore.

 _He stripped her carelessly, not his usual style, but he really didn't want to think. Every time he let his thoughts go, they returned to dark hair with a white streak, flashing emerald eyes..._

 _He stared down at the blonde, waiting for him to discard his own clothing._

 _And couldn't do it._

He stares into the mirror.

The eyes that haunt him now are not the azure blue of a summer sky.

\- xx -

He keeps her waiting a long time, long enough to wash away his anger and leave him with an empty weariness too familiar for comfort. Belladonna left him feeling like this after his rage from the exile had finally vanished away.

She's probably out there waiting for him— _"We_ are _partners, or did you forget that?"_ —but he can't quite bring himself to care. It's not a pleasant thing to face: he doesn't want this to be about the X-Men, any more than he had wanted his bride to be about Guild peace.

There's always something else.

 _"What_ is _this?"_

Dieu, she's driving him crazy. He slams off the water and yanks his towel off the rack. He just can't quite bring himself to stay away.

\- xx -

When he comes out, she is standing at the window, staring through it, arms crossed, hands digging tightly into her flesh. She's frowning.

He studies her, lets whatever this feeling is run its course before he goes over to her, pulls her against him, and he's almost surprised when she startles but doesn't resist. It makes him gentle.

Her body is still but she doesn't stiffen, and something inside of him relaxes as she lets him hold her.

Finally, he speaks.

"I don't want you for your body." He kisses her softly on the top of her head and she shudders in his embrace. "Or your strength." He feathers another kiss on the smooth curve of her jaw. "Or because you're beautiful." Her neck. She swallows.

Slowly, she turns in his arms and he watches the flurry of emotions flickering through her emerald gaze. She stares at him, almost defiant. "Then why _do_ you want me?"

He stares back.

And everything she is floods through him, frightens him a little, but he wants it more badly than she can imagine. He slides one hand into her silken hair, lets it fall over his fingers.

"Because you're innocent," he says. "And because you're not."

Turmoil. A small frown puckers her mouth. He leans over to kiss her.

She responds, warm mouth opening to take him in. Her hands slide over his shoulders and her body presses against his.

"I don't understand you," she murmurs against his mouth.

He doesn't really answer.

\- xx -

She runs her hands over the strength in his arms. She knows what this is. Physical, warm, _safe_. Their deal's back on familiar ground, a de facto truce to fall back on the physical.

Maybe she's crazy for letting him touch her; she isn't really sure of why she lets him. She curses softly—he doesn't ask her why—because she _does_ know why she lets him. And that reason isn't about to change.

She follows his lead, kissing him until she can barely think before resting her head against his chin. He can draw her in with a glance.

She tilts her head speculatively, looks at him. "Teach me how to seduce." It's a soft request, not a demand.

He stares at her intensely for a long time, face expressionless. Finally, she starts to squirm. She's about to retract the request when he answers.

"Got your attention, don't I?"

She gets it then and studies the gesture. "Yes," she finally says.

He flicks his gaze from here to there on her body. "Only look when you don't have an audience."

Her face starts to burn. "You look _anywhere_?"

He chuckles. "That bother you, chère?" Then he's staring only into her eyes, and she finds she can't read his.

He's still the same, irritating mystery.

She changes the subject. "His name is Janson. Storm said they know you at Town's End." She searches his face for recognition and does not find it.

He nods. "They ought to." It's a simple answer with a wealth of potential interpretations.

"I'm supposed to flirt him up and get him to talk about whatever he knows about the missing mutants."

His eyes glow red, burning into her as if they are actually on fire. "And does that bother you, chére?" he repeats, this time more emphatically.

She meets him, eye for eye. "No."


End file.
